I had spent a decade rebuilding my life around an absence I thought I understood. Then one impossible phone call forced me to face a truth far more complicated than grief: sometimes getting someone back doesn’t mean getting back the person you lost.
Ten years after my twin sister died, a dentist’s office called and asked me to come pick her up.
Then they put Clara on the phone.
“Sarah? Please come get me.”
I knew that voice before she finished saying my name.
***
I was 30, sitting at my kitchen island with my laptop open and a half-finished coffee beside me.
“Sarah? Please come get me.”
Now I was gripping the counter hard enough to hurt my fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I told the receptionist when she came back on the line. “Who exactly is sitting there?”
“Your sister, Clara. She had a filling done this morning, and she’s still a little groggy from the medication. Her phone died, but she knew your number.”
“My sister died ten years ago.”
“Who exactly is sitting there?”
The woman went quiet.
“I… I’m very sorry. Would you like to speak to… Would you like to speak to her?”
“Yes.”
A rustle followed.
Then Clara’s voice returned.
“Sarah?”
“Would you like to speak to her?”
My chest tightened.
“Where are you?”
She gave me the address.
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” she said softly.
I grabbed my keys.
“Where are you?”
***
Clara and I had been 20 when her car went off a dark highway and down an embankment. It caught fire before anyone reached it. Authorities told us there was almost nothing to recover.
We buried a closed casket.
Therapy helped me rebuild. I moved 20 minutes from my parents, found a quiet job, bought a small house, and learned how to make plans without Clara.
I still bought two pastries sometimes without realizing it.
We buried a closed casket.
I still had two blue coffee mugs in my kitchen.
***
